


Job Offer

by Afalstein



Series: Recruitment Drive [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Burn Notice, Covert Affairs
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Multiple Crossovers, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afalstein/pseuds/Afalstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alt title: "Burn Agents." The Organization is no more, but when you cut off one head, two more will take its place.  Michael is pulled out of retirement and onto a plane with a strange man who wants to offer him a job. SHIELD needs Michael's help, and his friends' too. .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place post-series for "Burn Notice" and after Season 1 of Agents of SHIELD.

_Interrogations are about information. It’s truer than it sounds, especially in the spy game.  Any interrogation is a constant power play, centered around pretending to either have more or less information than you have.  Generally, the interrogator wants to make you think he knows more than he does, while the prisoner wants to act like they know less than they actually do._

Michael glanced around the room.  It wasn’t your usual interrogation chamber—which was to say, there was a reassuring lack of torture implements, but also a strange lack of the familiar two-sided mirror.  Actually, apart from the table and chair, it wasn’t your usual room, period.  The walls, floor and ceiling were all composed of odd hexagonal tiles, and the door was nearly invisible. In short, it looked on the weird side of professional.

_When being interrogated, it’s important to keep in mind what your opponent probably knows based on their resources, their observations, and their apparent intelligence.  For instance, if you’ve just been pulled off the street by talented operators who clearly knew what they’re doing, and stored in a well-equipped, high-tech room, it’s a safe bet that they have something to do with your past in the CIA._

“Mr. Conhobchair.”  The balding man smiled as he shut the door to the room.  “You’re a surprising man.”

_A common interrogation technique is to lull the subject into a sense of complacency by making him think you have completely bought his story or cover identity.  Give a person just enough rope, and there’s a good chance he’ll hang himself._

_However, this is only useful if you want something else from the subject, like a confession or associate.  It’s important to stay alert and try to figure out what they want, all while keeping in mind that your cover is probably already blown._

 “That’s a bit o’a statement, comin’ from a man with a fancy jet like this.”  Michael raised his eyebrows.   “May I call me wife?”

_But that’s no reason to admit to that past straightaway._

“Believe it or not, the whole point of the plane is to deal with surprising men.”  The man, still smiling, took a seat across from him.  “That’s why we decided to talk with you here, as opposed to, say, your house, where you probably have guns hidden under every surface.”  The smile wavered slightly.  “And a young boy who doesn’t need to see more violence than he has already.”

_Any sort of personal touch to an interrogation is either a threat, an attempt to gain rapport with the subject, or both.  The problem is, knowing that doesn’t make it any less effective._

“Ye wanted to talk with me?”  Michael’s face was a study in confusion.  “Surely a phonecall would ha’been easier.”

“Definitely would have been for my agents.”  The man mused.  “The doctor’s nursing one’s jaw in the med-bay right now. My men are some of the most well-trained professionals in the world, it takes a bit to do that to one of them.”

“Ah may have gotten a bit lucky.”  Michael allowed.  “I really need to call me wife, ye ken  She’ll be frettin’, and she’s a powerful firebrand when she frets.  I get one phone call, do I nae?”

“’Lucky’ isn’t the word Tripp would have chosen.”  The interrogator arched an eyebrow.  “In fact, he had some very specific observations.  He said your first few jabs were fairly amateurish, then suddenly you notched it up to eleven and started fighting like a commando.  Like you were testing us at first and really pulled out the stops once you realized we were professionals.”

_The problem with the whole spy-vs-spy game is that you tend to be playing with the same deck, and you know each other’s tricks a little too well._

“Well, ah have been takin’ a few kickboxin’ lessons, so there’s that.”  Michael admitted.

“Funny.”  The man smiled.  “You want to try again?”

Michael made a calculated sigh.  “Ah... used to run wit the IRA back in the day.”  He confessed, shrugging and looking away as if embarrassed.  “Stopped when the boy came along, but I learned a few tricks.”

“There’s also the fact that our doctor heard your accent on the way in, and tells me it’s a trifle on the leprecaunish side.”  The man raised a finger.  “I wouldn’t have noticed it myself, but she’s English and says it sounds like you’re compensating for something.”  He leaned forward in his chair.  “This whole back-and-forth stuff is getting a little old, so let’s get all our cards on the table.  I’m Phil Coulson of SHIELD, one of the most infamous agencies in the world right now, and you’re Michael Westen, one of CIA’s most infamous dead operatives.”

The room rocked suddenly as a dull boom shook the airplane.

Michael winced.  “I told you to let me call my wife.”  He reminded him.

 

* * *

 

 

            Fiona was mad.  No, Fiona was beyond mad. No faceless government conspiracy was going to take Michael from her.  Not again.

            She hadn’t used a lot of explosive... Michael was probably inside that plane, after all, and the last thing she wanted to do was set off the gas tank.  The charge she’d chucked into the left jet engine would keep this thing from taking off, sure, but mostly, it was supposed to rattle the agents inside and send them running out.

            Like they were doing now.  The cargo door in the back was swinging open.  Fiona shouldered her assault rifle and prepared to fire.

            The black SUV that came squealing out wasn’t quite what she had planned on.

            But Fiona was nothing if not adaptable.  Instantly she opened up on the car with a hail of gunfire.  She might as well have been shooting at a tank—bullets ricocheted off the windows and doors alike.  Even the tires seemed to shrug off a steady volley.

            The car roared toward her.  Fiona could see the person in the front seat—a dour-looking asian woman.  As it barrelled toward her position, Fiona leapt clear just in time to avoid the crates and boxes that went flying as the car smashed into her cover.

            A car door opened and slammed.  Fiona was already back up, gun at the ready, but the asian woman was too fast, and kicked away the gun with barely a flinch. Fiona leapt back, away from the follow-up jab, and then charged forward, aiming a flurry of blows at the woman’s midsection.  But not one got through.  The woman’s arms were a blur of motion, blocking every single attack.  She grabbed Fiona’s fist in midswipe and whipped her over her back and onto the ground with a painful thud.  The breath was knocked clean out of her, and for a moment Fiona saw stars, but she fought her way back to coherence just in time to roll away from the knee crashing down on her.  She gathered her legs under her and leapt up, drawing her knife. 

            But the asian woman was standing a little ways back, looking curiously annoyed at something over her left shoulder.

            There was suddenly a sharp pain in the back of her neck, and everything faded to black.

 

* * *

 

 

            “We call it an icer.  It’s nothing serious.”  Coulson assured a very angry-looking Michael, as the two of them stood over Fiona’s unconscious form in the cell.  “She’ll be up in little bit, feeling a little loopy and with a killer headache, but otherwise she’ll be fine.”

            Michael shook his head.  “She’s gonna be pissed.”

            “Yeah.”  Coulson gave a little nod.  “We get that a lot.”  He turned back toward the table.  “Anyway.  So, back to what we were talking about.  Michael Westen.  CIA.  Infamous.”

            “Infamous is a strange title, coming from an organization labeled as a pack of Neo-Fascists.”  Michael retorted, making no move from Fiona’s side.

            Coulson winced.  “Ah, this again.  See, the thing is... we’re not Nazis.”

            “I didn’t say Nazis, I said fascists.”  Michael retorted, finally turning.   “I get that remarkably few people on this plane would qualify for the Aryan brotherhood.  The ‘Nazi’ label the news networks are throwing around never made much sense to me, given SHIELD was led by Nick Fury for so long.”

            “’Nazi’ sounds better on the newsreels, I gather.”  Coulson shrugged.

            “Fascist is still more accurate.”  Michael answered.  “Explain to me why I should listen to single word you have to say.”

            “Because we’re not fascists either.”  Coulson answered.  “You’re talking about Hydra.  We’re the folks fighting them, and we need your help.”

            “Well.  Never heard that one before.”  Michael grunted.

            Coulson smiled.  He seemed to do that a lot.  “It’s not the most original line, I’ll grant you.  Probably heard it from... what were those people who burned you, again?”

            “They... didn’t really have a name.”  Michael answered, throwing the man an odd look.  “They just called themselves ‘the Organization.’”

            “Really?  Wow.  That’s... kind of a lame title.”

            “Well I gathered they were more interested in private wars than in flashy slogans.”  Michael smiled.

            “Everyone is always interested in flashy slogans.”  Coulson smirked.  “If they aren’t, it’s because they already have a much cooler one.”  He picked up one of the files on the desk and handed it over to Michael.  “Ever notice something odd about them?  Like, just when you thought you’d finally taken down the big dog, another one would pop up?”

            “Nothing new about corruption being hard to stamp out.”  Michael countered.  “Organizations like this are naturally secretive, they compartmentalize and keep their real leaders secret. We’re lucky we got as many as we did.”

            “You were.”  Coulson nodded.  “And it turns out, SHIELD should have been playing closer attention.”  He gestured to the file.

            Michael, reluctantly, started to flip through the pictures, at first slowly, then at an increasing rate.  Operatives across the world. Widespread corruption.  Private armies.  It was the Organization all over again, only...

            “Hydra.”  Coulson said quietly, tapping a picture.  It showed Ansom, Secretary of Defense DIA psychiatrist and founding member of ‘The Organization,’ shaking hands with his boss, Secretary of Defense Alexander Pierce.  “Cut off one head...”

            “...two more will take its place.”  Michael finished. 

            “In this case, Decima Technologies and McQuaid Security.”  At Michael’s glance, Coulson shrugged.  “We think.  They might be completely unrelated baddies.  For now, let’s just say they’re two private security firms that have rather conveniently stepped into the void left by SHIELD and...” gesturing at the folder, “...the Organization.”

Michael returned his gaze to the folder.  “You’re sure about this?”

            Coulson shrugged.  “Like you say, they’re secretive and they compartmentalized.  Ansom is the only concrete link, and he was never questioned.  He might have been manipulating the Organization on Hydra’s behalf, or he might have been doing his own thing.  Though... really, what’re the odds of the Secretary AND the secretary’s DIA both leading massive internal conspiracies and being completely unaware of each other?”

            “Not good.”  Michael concluded grimly.

            “No.”  Coulson nodded.  “It’s not.  You see why we need your help?”

            Michael sat down heavily on the chair.  “I lost my job and my family to these people.”  He muttered.  “What does it take to make them go away?”

            Coulson said nothing for a minute.  “Perhaps they never do.”  He answered finally.  “SHIELD thought it had destroyed Hydra back in the 1950’s, but they still came back.  As long as there have been governments or people, there have been those seeking to control them.  But for equally long...”  A gentle smile curved his face.  “...there have been men like us, trying to stop them.”

            Michael glanced up sharply.  “No.”  He said.  “No, no.  I’m out.  I’m out, everyone in the business thinks I’m dead.  That’s both the best state to be in and the hardest one to obtain in this line of work.  I have a wife and family, I’m not putting them through more of this by getting back into a life I had such difficulty getting out of.”

            “Oh, for pity’s sake, Michael,” interrupted a new voice.  “You know this peaceful life is driving me crazy.”

            Coulson and Michael turned to behold Fiona, sitting up groggily from the bench.  She fixed Michael with a glare.  “Maybe _you’re_ happy in this peaceful glen life, but I’m going slowly _nuts._   I haven’t shot _anyone_ in _so_ long.”

            Michael looked at her.  “Fiona, you were the one who wanted me to quit the life.”

            “Not the life, just the CIA.”  Fiona rolled her eyes.  “For crying out loud, Michael, I’m a gun-runner and ex-IRA member.  The way you shoot people is one of the best parts about you.  I just... didn’t like the CIA always having you on a leash.”

            “Wow.  You’re a lot calmer about being shot than I thought you’d be.”  Coulson observed, eyeing her with puzzlement.

            “Still a little groggy.”  Fiona answered.  “Give me a few more minutes, and then that asian bitch is gonna PAY.”

            “I’m still a little fuzzy as to why I should help you.”  Michael countered, turning on Coulson.  “You never did exactly make a case for you being SHIELD and not Hydra.”

            Coulson tilted his head as if puzzled.  “If I was Hydra—the people who recruited and were destroyed by you—do you honestly think I’d try to hire you again?”

            “Amsom did.”

            “Yeah.  And look how that worked out for him.”

            Michael considered that for a moment.  “That’s actually a good point.”  He admitted.

            “Personally, sweetie, it would make better sense just to kill you before you could tear down the organization again.”  Fiona agreed.

            “That does sound like the sort of thing Hydra would do.”  Coulson nodded.

            There was an unpleasant pause as all three spies considered the logical implications of that.  Hydra was back.  They _might_ do that.

            “What exactly are you proposing?”  Michael broke the uncomfortable silence.

            Coulson sat down across from him.  “Administration.”  He answered.  “I want you to run a SHIELD cell here, in Ireland.”

“Why Ireland?”  Michael asked.

“There are a lot of Celtic artifacts in Ireland, and plenty of other things from Scandinavia left behind by Viking raiders.  Such things have... gained a great deal of importance in recent years.”  Coulson smiled.  “SHIELD needs someone here to find, collect, and protect any artifacts of interest before they fall into the wrong hands.”

“So what, you want him to be a glorified museum curator?”  Fiona scoffed.  “That sounds dull.”

“It’ll... probably get... really interesting before too long.”  Coulson had a funny look on his face.  “Hydra’s after the artifacts too.  But the position has other responsibilities.  Transfer, obviously—maintaining safe houses and supply routes for agents. We may ask you to handle local missions—hunting up information or investigating threats.  Obviously you wouldn’t be required to handle such wetwork personally, but if you have associates who would...”  Coulson grinned at Fiona, “...that would work just as well.  Operational security, also... SHIELD is still devoted to world peace.  Occasionally we’ll get tips about threats to various nations. We’ll want you to handle those.”

“This is Ireland.”  Again that was Fiona.  “National threats are fairly commonplace, and not all of them are cut-and-dry.”

“Not necessarily the sort of threats I had in mind.”  Coulson shook his head.  “The IRA isn’t likely to be what you’re dealing with.  In any case, how you handle them will be up to you.  Also...” a peculiar look spread over his face, “...there is the acquisition of assets.”

“Acquisition?”  Michael looked suspicious.

“Assets?” Fiona looked interested.

“The term we use is ‘gifted.’”  Coulson explained.  “Various people who have... unusual abilities or powers.”  He thumbed through Michael’s file and picked out a picture.  “Like this man.  Sean Cassidy.  Fairly normal Irish teenager, until he started flying and breaking plexiglass with his voice.”

Michael took the picture.  Orange hair and a thin freckled face looked back at him.  “What did you do to him?”  He asked.

“Flew up in a helicopter, brought him back down to earth, found him a throat doctor.”  Coulson shrugged.  “Without us, he could have destroyed half the village, or been killed by an angry mob.  Or been ‘recruited’ by someone.”

“I think I’m missing something here.”  Fiona cut in.  “You say you want him to work for you, that he has all these responsibilities.  But what does he get out of it?”

“Fiona...”

“No.”  Fiona stopped him.  “I saw you be a boy scout for over four years, Michael, and it’s noble as hell, but it is no way to live.  Or raise Charlie on.”  She shook her head.  “Honestly, I have no idea how you kept us stocked in yogurt all those years.”

Coulson was still smiling.  “We have agents, houses, equipment stashes, and oh yes.”  He pulled a check out from the file.  “A payroll.”

Michael raised his eyebrows.  Fiona stood up, looked over his shoulder, and started back.  “How can you guys afford that?”  She asked.  “Aren’t you like a vigilante organization now?”

A shrug.  “We still have resources.”  He turned his gaze back onto Michael.  “And with those resources, we can still do a lot of good.  With the right help.”

Michael said nothing for a long time.  Fiona touched his arm but said nothing either.  Coulson sat across from them, waiting.

Finally Michael heaved a sigh.  “When do we start?”  He asked.


	2. Vetting Process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse and Sam, still in the spy-for-hire business, have a routine meeting with an information broker who has a gang after her. But there's something odd about this information broker, and the gang she's sending them to handle is a bit more than Sam and Jesse are accustomed to.

“Hey Jesse.”  The silver-haired Navy Seal got up to shake the ex-counter-intelligence agent’s hand.  “Thanks for coming down for this.”

            Jesse shrugged as he dropped into the chair.  “Not like I got a lot else going on right now.”

            Sam winced.  “Still no luck on the job search, huh?”

            “I tell you, man.”  Jesse shook his head.  “Help a fugitive from the law one time—“

            “Actually we kinda did that twice.”  Sam pointed out.

            “—okay, fine, help a fugitive branded as a traitor TWO times—“

“Three times, really, if you count the whole thing in South America where we didn’t know we’d been branded as traitors.”  Sam mused.

“---okay, three times—“

“Plus, I suppose technically, when you first lost your job and were branded as a traitor, you came around to help Mike, who was also considered a traitor at the time, so really it’s four...”

“—screw up a couple times, and it seems like the CIA never forgets it.”  Jesse sighed and slumped back in his chair.  “I mean, I’ve gotten some offers from security sub-contractors and so forth—there’s this McQuaid Security headhunter who’s been on my case—but I don’t know, man, the private sector just isn’t for me.”

            “Not even Stark Industries?”

            Jesse snorted.  “Yeah, I’m totally at superhero profile level.”  At Sam’s look he sighed.  “No, not even Stark Industries.  I dunno, it just seems so mercenary.  And Stark... man, he’s a genius and all, but honestly from what I see on newsreels, he’s not the sort of boss I’d take a shine to.”  Jesse blew the air out of his mouth and rubbed his eyes.  “Unemployment sucks.”

            “Eh.”  Sam nodded.  “Well, I hear you there, I can’t get a legitimate career to save my life either.”

            “Oh, poor baby.”  Jesse’s frown turned to a smirk.  “Look at the sad little sugar daddy running destitute on his wife’s savings.”

            Sam adopted a wounded expression.  “Hey, I’ll have you know it’s pretty damn emasculating.”

            “Uh-huh.  ‘cause being a boy-toy always bothered you before.”

            Sam smirked and gave a little shrug.  “Don’t knock the life until you’ve tried it, brother.”  The smile faded.  “But that aside, I want to be a bit more than a ‘boy-toy’ to Elsa.  I mean, that girl practically gave up everything for me.  Seems like I ought to be able to do more than just keep her warm at nights.”

            Jesse nodded.  “Fair enough.”  He leaned back.  “So.  Sounds like we both could use this job.  What’d you say it was?”

            “Honestly not sure.”  Sam checked his watch.  “One of my old war buddies set up the meet.  Didn’t give specifics, just said it was someone who had a little problem they couldn’t afford to take to the usual suspects.”

            “Ah. That’s us.  Bargain value secret agents.”  Jesse nursed his drink and looked morose.  “Hey, think we might actually get paid this time?”

            Sam shrugged.  “A man can dream.”

            “Sam Axe?  And Jesse Porter?”

            Both men looked up.  A tall, statuesque asian woman, eyes hidden behind shades, had come up to their table and was staring at them imperiously.  A tall, dark-skinned man with muttonchops and close-cropped hair flanked her, and met their gazes with a smile.

            “Oh, if I wasn’t married...”  Sam muttered.

“You’re not.”  Jesse looked at his friend in confusion.

Sam glared at him, extended a hand to the woman, and smiled.  “That’s us, beautiful.  May I take it you’re our client, then?”

            A muscle in the woman’s neck twitched, but she nodded and slid into a seat.  “My name is May,” she said crisply, as the dark-skinned man sat next to her.  “Melinda May.  Information Broker.  I was informed you have the requisite skills to... handle a certain problem that has arisen.”

            “Just call us the local Robin Hoods.”  Sam smiled.  “We love helping damsels in distress.”

            Another twitch.  Jesse caught the eye of the dark-skinned man, he seemed quietly amused by something.

            “As I said, I am an information broker.”  May said, speaking with apparent calm.  “Situations are not uncommon in my line of work, but previously I have always been able to defuse them.  Recently, however, I stumbled across a bit of intel that... seems to have drawn me some unwanted attention.”

            “What kind of information?”  Jesse asked.

            A thin snort.  “If I just gave out information for free, I wouldn’t be much of a broker, now would I?”

            “You might be a dead one.” Jesse suggested.  Sam threw him a dark glare.

            May studied him for a moment.  “Design specifications.”  She finally said.  “From a defunct corporation, called Cybertek.  Heard of it?”

            “Can’t say I have.”  Jesse shook his head.

            “They’re rather... _thoroughly_ out of business,” there was a twist to the woman’s mouth, “so I doubt they’re the problem.  But I’ve been routinely harassed by other agents.”  The woman brought up her phone and cycled through some images of suit-clad men with SMG’s.

            Sam was frowning.  “If you’re expecting us to fight a war for you, lady...”

            “No, of course not.”  The woman shook her head.  “I just need you to find out who they are.”  Another image, this of a map with a highlighted section.  “I know they operate out of this facility.”  She produced a thumbdrive.  “Infiltrate the facility, and plug this into the computer.  I should be able to take it from there.”

            Jesse exchanged a troubled look with Sam, who looked none too happy himself.  There was something very strange about this mission...

            Apparently the woman saw it.  “In return, I am willing to pay you each 50,000 dollars cash, plus expenses.”

            Both men’s faces quickly cleared.  “Sounds good.”  Sam answered, picking up the drive.  “Jesse and I will scope the place out and figure out the best plan of attack.”

            “One thing more.” May held up a hand.  “This is Mr. Tripp.” She indicated the dark-skinned man, who nodded at the two of them pleasantly.  “He’s an associate of mine.  In order to ensure that everything proceeds smoothly and in a manner I would wish, he will accompany you.”

            Both Jesse and Sam looked very troubled again.  “Ma’am, no disrespect, but Sam and I...”  Jesse gestured.  “...we’ve worked together a lot, and we’ve got a sort of rhythm.  To stick someone new into that...”

            “It’s not negotiable.”  May stood up.  She dropped two envelopes on the table. “Here is half your agreed payment.  You’ll receive the other half upon completion.  Tripp will know how to contact me when that is done.”

            And with that, she walked away from the table.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Well, whoever they are, they certainly are careful.”  Jesse grumbled.  He and Tripp were in a car a safe distance away from the suspicious warehouse.  “There’s gotta be no less than six security cameras covering the front alone, and that’s even without the two curiously well-groomed homeless guys with suspiciously good angles on the street.”

            “Those doors don’t look like easy hits either.”  Tripp frowned.

            Another car pulled up alongside them.  “So, I made the rounds.”  Sam said, leaning out the windows.  “Not a lot I could figure out.  These guys keep a pretty low profile, but when they do pop up, they tend to scare people silent.”

            “You find anything useful?”  Jesse threw him a look.

            “Barry, as usual.”  Sam answered.  “He didn’t work with them—said they were too scary, and he got the feeling they were the ‘tie up loose ends’ sort of organization, so he forwarded them onto some other guy.”

            “You talk to this other guy?”

            “He’s dead.”

            Jesse winced.  “Ouch.  Looks like Barry’s instincts were right for once.  Too bad about his friend.”

            “Actually, that’s part of the thing.  Apparently Barry couldn’t stand this guy.”  Sam grinned a little.  “Doesn’t make it any less creepy, though.  Hell, Tripp, who did your boss piss off?”

            Tripp gave the man a quizzical look.  “Isn’t that what you guys were supposed to figure out?”

            “Rhetorical question.”  Sam sighed.  “Anyway, Barry said they were a bunch of big guys in suits.  Leader’s was the kind of preppy white guy who smiles too much.  They said they wanted help moving money in and out of an account in Cuba.”

“Cuba?”  Jesse’s eyebrows jumped.  “Sure it wasn’t a Cayman islands or Swiss bank account?  Cuban banks are not the choice of the discerning miscreant.”

“Positive.”  Sam nodded.  “That’s exactly why Barry remembered, because of how weird it was.  Heck, man, I didn’t even know they HAD banks in Cuba.” 

“Certainly none that gangsters tend to use.”  Jesse frowned.  “So... we’re not looking at a cartel or mob here.  We’re looking at spies.”

Sam shook his head.  “That doesn’t make much more sense.  Any spy agency worth their salt would have dummy accounts and assets already to go.  Or they’d have people back in Moscow or wherever to set it up for them.”

“So these are rogues.”  Jesse hypothesized.  “They’ve broken off from their main agency, and now they’re in the spy-for-hire business.”

Sam looked at the warehouse.  He looked back at Jesse.  He leaned back and sighed.  “Damnnit...”  He groaned.  “I hate spies.  Buncha bitchy little girls.”

“Look, it’s all good, man.”  Jesse shrugged.  “I still got some buds in the CIA, we’ll drop a line to them about Cuban spies setting up shop in Miami, they take care of the heavy lifting for us.”

“No federal agencies.”  Tripp spoke up suddenly.  “If my boss had wanted the CIA involved, she would have gone to them herself.”

Sam and Jesse sent him a look.  “Your boss hired us to find out who was hunting her.  We found out.”

“She hired you to place a flash drive in their systems so she could verify who they were.”  Tripp shook his head.  “Not make a bunch of half-assed guesses based on what some money launderer said.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed at the man.  “Did you see the security on that front door?  Short of a

tank, we’re not getting in there.  I prefer not dying.  Besides, this is a bit beyond your boss now.”

            “She paid you to place the flash drive.”  Tripp insisted.  “I can’t guarantee the rest of your payment if...”

            “Sorry, man, but we’re going to have to forego that bit.”  Jesse was also shaking his head.  “Much as I need the cash, national security threat trumps next month’s laundry money.”

            “Then this is where I get off.”  Tripp opened the car door and stepped out.  “If you change your mind, this is where I’ll be.”

            “We’ll tell the CIA assault team to keep an eye out.” Sam smirked, and he and Jesse drove off.

 

* * *

 

 

            “What the hell?”  Sam’s face was knit in fury.  They were at a more upscale bar, now, in downtown Miami.  “We come to you with a credible international threat, and you give us this bullshit?”

            Andrew Strong, on the other side of the table, spread his hands apologetically.  “Hey, I believe you guys, but Miami’s not my purview.  I passed your tip on to my superiors, along with my recommendation that it be taken seriously, but...”

            “....they sent back ‘mind your own business?’” Jesse didn’t look any happier than Sam.  “Seriously?”

            “More like ‘if there was a threat there, we’d know about it.’”  Andrew let out a heavy sigh.  “Look, it’s... things have changed since you guys left the agency, okay?  A lot of our intel is run through this ‘Decima Technologies’ group, and the top brass think the moon and stars of what they give out.”

            Jesse seemed to consider.  “I suppose our tip was awfully vague.”

            “Still, doesn’t the CIA doesn’t take tips anymore?”  Sam demanded.

            “Sure they do.” Andrew was clearly uncomfortable.  “Look, I don’t get it either.  But my boss said they looked into your tip and found it non-credible.”

            “How could they have done that?”  Sam snapped.  “We just told you yesterday!”

            “Whoah, Sam.”  Jesse placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder to calm him down.  “Take it easy on the guy, okay?  You know what it’s like to get stonewalled by the Man.”

            Sam’s shoulders slumped.  “I know.”  He sighed.  “I just... I guess I was hoping we could win some points with the agency for this.  Now we just probably look more desperate and unreliable than ever.”

            “For what it’s worth, I’m still going to bat for you guys.”  Andrew looked somewhat relieved that they weren’t blaming him anymore.  “But I used up most of my favors just keeping you out of prison.  And honestly...”  He hesitated, “...like I said, things have been... different in the agency.  Ever since that whole mess with SHIELD there’s been a lot more oversight—checks and reports and supervisory committees and spies spying on spies spying on spies...”  A shake of the head.  “Some days I have a hard time remembering why I joined the CIA in the first place.”

            “Ouch.”  Jesse eyed the man.  “Thanks for the pep talk, man.  I feel so much better.”

Andrew mustered a smile.  “Anything to help.”  He got up from the table.  “Well, I need to get back to it.  Sorry I couldn’t come with better news for you guys.  Don’t mind the tab, I’ll take care of it.”

            “Okay.” Jesse said, as the CIA agent walked off.  “So what’s Plan B?”

            “This was plan B.”  Sam grunted, nursing his drink.  “Plan C is to go back to Plan A.  But to do that, we’re going to need more resources.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Shit.”  Sam’s old SEAL buddy, Vergil, lowered the binoculars as he gazed out the window of the car.  “Well, direct assault’s a no-go, I can tell you that.”

            “Yeah, we figured that too.”  Sam chewed his lip.  “But getting an ‘in’ with these guys doesn’t seem too doable either.  Maybe we mount a distraction on the left while another squad blows in through the right?”

            Jesse shook his head.  “It’d need to be one hell of a distraction, man.  We got barely enough firepower to consider even a single assault.”

            Sam sighed.  “I wish Mike were here.”  He muttered.  “He’d have some plan.”

            “Or Fiona.”  Jesse mused.  “She’d have some firepower.”

            “Or Madeline.”  Vergil looked wistful.  “She’d have some...”  He let the sentence trail off.

            There was a moment’s melancholic silence.

            “Sorry about it, gents, but you’re going to have to make do with me.”  All three men jumped and swiveled as Tripp opened the door to the car.  “Sam. Jesse.”  He nodded pleasantly, sliding into the back.  “Thought you might be back.  What’s the new plan?”

 

* * *

 

            “You guys always have such elaborate plans?”

            “Elaborate?”  Jesse glanced over at Tripp.  It was night now, and the two were sitting with Virgil in a beat-up SUV in the exact same spot as before.  “Man, you think this is elaborate, you should have seen some of the stuff we did back with the old gang.”

            Tripp shrugged.  “Just seems like this whole gambit with Sam pulling some ‘Chuck Finley’ double-agent routine is unnecessary.”

            “Hey, let the man do his thing, a’right?”  Jesse threw the man a look.  “Sam can be annoying as hell sometimes, but he can pull a con off like nobody’s business.”

            Vergil, who was scanning the front with binoculars, snorted.  “Don’t know where he learned that.”  He muttered.  “SEAL training doesn’t leave much room for acting classes.”

            “I get the feeling most of his theatrical training was done in bars and dining halls.”  Jesse chuckled.

            “He a pick-up artist?”  Tripp grinned.

            “Artist is stretching a point.  Ladies’ man maybe.  He can make most women believe whatever he wants them to.”  Jesse’s shoulders gave a light shrug.  “He’s just not always so good at knowing what they want to believe.”

            Tripp shook his head.  “What’s the story behind how you two met?”

            “Forget about us for a second.”  Jesses eyes were deceptively calm, his gaze hooded.  “What’s your story, Tripp?”

            “Me?”  Tripp chuckled.  “Gun for hire.  End of story.”

            “Oh please.”  Jesse scoffed.  “Have some respect for my intelligence here, man.”

            “You crept up to a car with two Navy Seals in it, and none of us noticed you until you opened the door.”  Vergil lifted the binoculars for a moment to give the man a pointed look.  “I’m not naturally paranoid, but that makes me wonder.”

            “Then I must be naturally paranoid, because I don’t have to wonder.”  Jesse cut in.  “You’re ex-black-ops of some kind.  Accent doesn’t seem feigned, so you’re American, most likely CIA.  A spec ops soldier would have tats of some kind.”

            “Have more muscle, too.”  Vergil pointed out.  “No offense, Jesse, but you intelligence boys are scrawny.”

            Jesse rolled his eyes but continued addressing Tripp.  “Then there was that bit with the plan.  Sam’s first idea to go in as a CIA insider was good, and then suddenly you speak up and say, no, that won’t work, you don’t think these guys’ll go for CIA secrets.  And I ask why not and you clam up.  Instead you suggest a genetics researcher, and whadaya know, they eat it up.”  Jesse pointed at Tripp.  “No way that was a lucky guess.  You know something that you’re not sharing, and that’s the sort of stunt that can get folks killed.”

“So,” Jesse shifted position, bringing his pistol into plain view, “before I call up Sam and give him the final go-ahead, there’s one point I’d like to clear up.”  His gaze was hard and fixed on the man.  “You’re too expensive to be a supervisor.  And you’re too knowledgeable about the situation to be a gun-for-hire, and you’re just not helpful enough to be an advisor.  But you’re just the right mixture to be the guy who arranges for someone to kill his enemies, and then shoots that someone in the back.”

            Tripp raised his eyebrows.  “Wow, you _are_ paranoid.”

            “Nope.  Just raised in Counter-Intelligence.”  Jesse gave a thin-smile.  “Makes me second-guess everything.”

            “Fair enough.”  Tripp shrugged.  “Tell you what.  I’ll take point, you two run behind me.  That way you can keep your eye on me, and I’m the only one likely to get shot in the back.”

            “That still leaves that awkward interval after the battle when you could slip into the shadows and garrote one of us.”  Jesse glared.

            An exaggerated eye roll.  “So don’t drop your guard after the battle.  I can’t do your whole job for you.  Anyway, do you have some kind of choice?  I was under the impression that you needed all the manpower you could get.”

            Jesse glared at him for a few seconds longer before dropping the look.  “Fine.”  He picked up the phone.  “Sam, move in.”

            Tripp smiled.  “Glad we could come to an agreement.”

            “Just so long as your boss holds up on that distraction we asked her to arrange.”  Jesse answered.  He still didn’t look happy.

            “Sam’s up.”  Vergil said suddenly, as a black sedan pulled up to the front.  Dropping the binoculars, he picked up one of the M-16’s in the back. “Better get ready.” 

            All three watched as suited men took Sam out of the car, searched him, and then marched him inside.

            “You’re sure your boss is going to come through on the distraction?”  Jesse repeated.

            “Dude.”  Tripp looked at him.  “Seriously.  Chill.  It can’t come too soon or it’ll be way too suspicious.”

            “Well, they can’t come too late either, or...”

            The smash of a glass bottle drew their attention.  Off to the side, in the road by the warehouse, two men were arguing.  As they argued, others began to appear from the shadows and form on either side of the quarrel.

            “Your boss’s diversion is a gang war?”  Vergil asked in disbelief, as the first punch was thrown.

            “Gang war?”  Tripp looked at the older man.  “That’s a flash mob, man.  Most of those people are east-side hipsters who think they’re engaging in a post-ironic depiction of modern-age obsession with violence.”

            “Son-of-a-bitch.”  Jesse shook his head, as more men in suits began to appear by the front doors.  “Your boss thought of this?”

            “Technically, a girl she has working for her.”  Tripp shrugging, picking up the backpack at his feet.  “Say, are we ready to blow a hole in the back part of the wall?  Because, all else aside, half of that mob is the waistcoat devotee crowd, and the other half is the sweater devotee crowd, so things could get sort of messy.”

            Jesse shook his head, but he could not help smiling as he got out of the car.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Nice job, Axe.”  Tripp looked about the remains of what had been the control center.  “Had to admit, I was worried this was going to turn into a hostage scenario, but you really came through.”

            “The boss is still around somewhere.”  Sam was breathing hard, and the glasses he had put on for his role were somewhere smashed on the floor, but he looked well enough.  “Went outside with the others.”

            “That mob sounds like it’s dying down.”  Vergil observed, glancing to the door.  “He could be back any minute.”

            “Then let’s get this done.”  Tripp said, pulling the flash drive from his pack.

            “Hey, hold on a second there, Delta force.”  Sam raised his hand.  “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

            “Yeah.”  Jesse nodded.  “Among other things, where you learned to clear a room like that.  I think I barely fired my gun.”

            Sam ignored him.  “These guys weren’t Cubans or Russians or whatever, they were Americans!  Part of some... domestic terror cell, I guess.  I heard them talking, they’ve got more places like this in other towns, kidnapping people and... doing some sort of experiments!”  His eyes narrowed at Tripp.  “They were REALLY interested in that genetic scientist background you set up for me.  Said it was exactly what they were looking for.  How’d you know exactly what they were looking for?”

            “Look, we can talk about this later...” Tripp smiled, spreading his hand.

            “Later nothing!”  Sam roared, moving a step closer.  “Look at this!”  In his hand was a half-smashed laptop, the “Decima Technologies” logo clearly visible on the front.  “The CIA’s new independent intel service, right?  They were showing me all sorts of confidential data on this thing!”  He stepped forward again, right up to Tripp.  “Now you know something about these people, you and your boss, and so help me, you’d better...”

            The doors blew open.  The whole quartet whirled around, guns up, to confront a squad of five or six men in combat gear.

            “Who are you?  How did you get in here?”  Demanded the man at the head, his gun wavering.  “What do you...”  He caught sight of Tripp and his eyes widened.  “Agent Tripp!”

            At that moment, something knocked him down.  The man on his right started to turn, only to get an elbow in the face, just as a leg knocked the floor out from under the feet of the man on his left.  The remaining two men were just turning, guns up, to confront the intruder, when two shots from her dual-wielded pistols killed them dead.

            Melinda May, now in a tightfitting blue jumpsuit, holstered her twin pistols and grabbed the leader by the scruff of his neck, dragging him into the room.  Then, straightening up, she nodded at the others.  “Everything in order?”

            “All set, ma’am.”  Tripp grinned.  “Uploading Skye’s virus now.”  He plugged the flash drive into the computer.

            “How... what...”  Sam managed.

            “Good.”  The woman gave a sharp nod.  “The rest of the facility is clear.  All that’s left is to get some answers from this scumbag.”  Grabbing the leader, she forced him up against the wall.  “Where are the others?”  She demanded.  “What was Garret’s endgame?”

            The leader’s eyes creaked open.  A slow smile spread across his face.  And as the froth of cyanide poison bubbled over his gums, he managed to croak out:

            “ _Hail Hydra_.”

           

* * *

 

 

            “So.  Hydra.”  Sam, Jesse, and Vergil were back at the diner, staring at May and Tripp.

            “Part of a gang led by an old friend of ours.”  May smiled tightly.  “Not part of the regular Hydra organization.  They had a somewhat... different agenda.”

            “What was that?”

            “We’re working on it.”  May admitted.  “Something to do with those kidnappings you mentioned.”

            “And Decima’s part of it?”

            “Hard to say.”  May shook her head.  “We’re still working on whether Decima is part of the beast or its own animal entirely.  This cell might just have paid Decima off, or they might have skated beneath the radar by simply not planning to attack the US... all criticisms aside, Decima’s Samaritan protocol is very thorough, but it’s only targeted on threats to the US, which these men were not.”  She shrugged.  “Yet, anyway.”

            “Hydra does have sources inside the CIA.  We’re pretty certain of that.”  Tripp added.

            “So if they’re Hydra, you must be SHIELD.”  Jesse reasoned.

            “Technically, SHIELD doesn’t exist anymore.”  Tripp pointed out.  “But yes.  We’re agents who felt the whole let’s-dissolve-the-single-agency-best-suited-for-combating-Hydra thing was... kinda a stupid-ass decision.”

            “So we elected to ignore it.”  May smiled.

            “Just the two of you?”

            “No.”  May was still smiling.  It wasn’t the warmest smile, but it was confident.  “There are more of us.  And there are getting to be more all the time.”

            “We want to build SHIELD back up.”  Tripp explained.  “Properly this time.  There’s all sorts of equipment and resource caches around the globe to help us out, too.  But we need more manpower.”

            “You came here to recruit us.”  Jesse realized.

            “Pretty much,” answered Tripp.  “I mean, May and I could have cleared that warehouse ourselves, but we wanted to get an idea of your strengths and weaknesses.  Loyalties, too.”  Tripp smiled.  “We’ve had some... surprises with Hydra before, obviously.  And really, you guys did excellently.  Everything went perfectly smoothly.  Although we didn’t expect your friend.  Hadn’t heard anything about him.”  Tripp gave an embarrassed nod to Vergil.  “Sorry, man.”

            “Hey,” Vergil gave a little wave.  “Honestly, I’m too old for the game anyway.  You’re better off without me.  And I’m better off not hearing the rest of this conversation.”  Downing the remainder of his drink, he got up.  “Been a pleasure, Sam.”

            “Well?”  May arched an imperious eyebrow as the ex-SEAL walked away.  “I think we’ve established you’ve passed our test.  And I think we’ve also established we’re not terrorists.  And I’m pretty sure we don’t need to establish that you two have relatively little else going on.”

            “Hey!”  Sam looked affronted.

            “Dude, she’s right.”  Jesse shrugged.  Turning to the two SHIELD agents, he asked, “What sort of work are we talking about?”

            “That would depend on where we needed you.”  May gave a small shrug.  “But obviously counter-intelligence is a huge part of our focus right now, and equally obviously, we can use whatever trained operatives or infiltrators we can find.  There are jobs, all around the world...”

            “Uhhh...”  Sam raised his hand.  “I... kinda got a... girl here.”

            May’s face had something of an “Are you kidding?” expression, but Tripp just shrugged.  “We could also use a cell in Miami.  Worst comes to worst, we could probably even arrange to move her.”

            “You can afford that?”

            “I said there were resources left over, right?”  Tripp grinned.  “Oh, right, we should probably have mentioned that you do actually get paid.”

            May passed a check over the table.  Sam and Jesse looked at it and then at each other.

            “Think it over.”  May and Tripp both got up.  “You decide, call this number”—a card was dropped to the table, “—to get in contact with us.  Our man will tell you how to proceed from there.”

            “That’s it?”  Jesse frowned, picking up the card.  “No code words, no pass phrases?”

            May gave another small smile.  “He’ll know if it’s you.”

            A wink from Tripp.  “Drinks are on us.”

            Sam and Jesse stared at the two as they walked out of the bar.  Then for a long moment they stared at each other.  Finally, Sam snatched the card out of Jesse’s hand and dug out his phone.

            “You’re calling?  Just like that?”  Jesse asked.

            “I’m curious, okay?”  Sam grumbled, putting the phone to his ear.  “Yeah, hi, is this SHIELD headquarters?”

_“Sam?”_

            “Mike?”          

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back in mid-season, and the plot originally was that Centipede captured Charley (Michael's kid) because he was a mutant, and Coulson took him on to help chase them down in Miami with the help of Jesse and Sam. I never got very far on it, so I managed to change it to fit the RD series.
> 
> We'll see Sam and Jesse soon, though.


End file.
